My only question when Evan asked if I could do a write-up for Ian
Paisley was whether there would be any restrictions on use of the word
"motherfucker." [Nope. - ed.]
Because although the world has seen
bigger motherfuckers than Ian Motherfucking Paisley, I'm not writing up
those motherfuckers' deaths for the AO Deadpool. This motherfucker I
am. Oh, I'm sure he didn't personally kick any puppies; oh, no, he was a
"man of peace," an ordained minister, a
"tireless warrior for his people," as the Economist put it.* But he
didn't have to be violent himself: all this motherfucker had to do was
make a speech calling for the destruction of Catholicism or hold up a
sign slandering the Pope and hundreds of angry young men would rise up
to burn, riot, and kill.
And for whose benefit did this motherfucker instigate all this horror?
Not the Northern Irish; they just wanted to be left alone. Not the
British; his vicious attacks on Catholicism did more to harm Unionist
sentiment in England than even the IRA bombings. No, the only person
helped by this motherfucker's hate-suffused rantings was Ian
Motherfucking Paisley himself. The proof for that is that as soon as he
got more glory out of professing to support peace and reconciliation
than he got from inciting hate, he turned tail. It was always only ever
all about him, all the time.
I'm sure that Ian Motherfucking
Paisley expected to be welcomed into the arms of Christ after his death
at the age of 88. I'm no expert on the afterlife, but let's say I have
my doubts. Loki and I each get eight points from this motherfucker's
* Fuck you, Economist
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